


Siren Song

by Evesi



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Assassin!Haytham, Assassin's Creed III, Assassin's Creed: Forsaken, F/M, Incest, Kink Meme, M/M, More tags and warnings to come, Shipping will happen eventually, Templar!Ratonhnhaké:ton
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-24
Updated: 2013-05-29
Packaged: 2017-12-06 06:55:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/732707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Evesi/pseuds/Evesi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To the Assassins and the Templars, the amulet represented a way to power. To Haytham, it could lead to nothing but sorrow.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Sob. So much for sticking with just one multi-chaptered fic at a time. Anyway, this is being written for the following prompt on the AssCreed kink meme: _What if Haytham had become an Assassin and Connor a Templar? Picture when Haytham arrives in Boston, he strengthens the Brotherhood alongside Achilles and hunted down the remaining Templars. During this time, he married Ziio and they had children. Though one fateful day, his eldest son is killed in a fire but actually kidnapped and raised by Charles Lee and the remaining Templars._
> 
>  _Because Haytham's life isn't tragic enough, Ziio falls ill and he is left to care for his two young sons (Edward and Jim?) as a single parent. Not sure if he carries on family tradition, training them to become Assassins - or just decides to retire and leave the Brotherhood in Achilles and Connor Davenport's care... until that fateful day when the Templars rise from the ashes to resume control over the colonies._  
> 
> _Anon is a big HaythCon shipper - so imagine Templar!Connor seducing Haytham, because he enjoys messing with his head and trying to control the master assassin in his own way... and Haytham is probably horrified (and enraged that Lee is using his son in such a way) but struggles to resist ^^;_
> 
> PS - Edward is based more on what is seen in AC: Forsaken with a dash of pirate thrown in for his backstory. I fully expect Ubisoft to throw all of my assumptions about him out of the window when the game comes out, but oh well. We're in AU land now! >:(

**_The Caribbean - October 1714_ **

He had found it at the bottom of a trunk filled with dusty tomes and yellowed papers.

Edward didn’t recognize the materials that made it; the amulet felt strange and foreign to his touch, pulsing in a way he’d never known metal and stone to do. It was as if the thing were alive, calling to him and trying to speak to him through its soft glow. Sadly, he could not understand it and could make neither head nor tail of the inscriptions carved into its surface; it was not of a language he knew or recognized.

But what did he care?

A pirate took and plundered. He thought of trading it for coin many times during his travels, but in the end, Edward never did, always rethinking his decision before the trinket passed on to another pair of hands. It would only be decades later that he’d find himself regretting his choice; it would have been wiser to have given it to another or hidden it away.

He should have never removed it from its hiding place.


	2. Chapter 2

**_London, England - March 1753_ **

Silence often heralded trouble at the Kenway residence.

Haytham had long ago moved away from his family’s home in Queen Anne’s Square, but he remained close to his kin--close enough that it took him all of two seconds to realize that his father had not called him over to catch up and reminisce, even if their previous correspondence had not already suggested otherwise. An eerie quiet hung over the entire establishment, and as he bid each servant good day, they all gave him thin, tight-lipped smiles and whispered their greetings in low voices.

His mother was nowhere in sight, as was the norm when trouble was brewing--a habit she’d picked up following the attack on their home so many years ago; standing just outside the drawing room, Jenny gave him a humorless smile as he passed her. He returned the favor, nodding once, and for a moment, it looked like she was going to say something. The opportunity passed them by, however, and Haytham continued down the hall toward his father’s study.

“Haytham. I apologize for calling you back here,” Edward said in greeting, as he stepped inside the room. Seated at his desk, he gave Haytham a brief smile and gestured for him to come closer. This-- _this_ was Edward Kenway: a man who once called himself a pirate and had become an Assassin, leading his family down a troubled path filled with violence and danger.

Haytham never blamed him for it, never thought negatively about the potential consequences that their occupations might inflict. After all, there could be no greater honor than to fight as a member of the Brotherhood--to protect freedom against any and all who would encroach upon it. Even now, a strange sort of pride would swell in his chest whenever he thought of his father, even if most individuals would say that it was _he_ , not Edward, who was the model Assassin.

“I came as quickly as I could,” he replied, coming to a halt several feet in front of his father’s desk, hands clasped behind his back. Matters related to the Brotherhood tended to take precedence in Haytham’s life, but there was an urgency in Edward’s letter that made him decide that _family_ was to come first this time; after all, it was unusual for him to be so riled up over something. Even so, traveling across the continent took time; it had been a solid month since his father had asked him to return home.

Edward pushed a letter across the table and nodded, gesturing for Haytham to take it. Cocking an eyebrow, he strode forward and plucked it off the table. So _this_ was what all of the fuss was about?

“A long time ago, I came across a trinket during my travels,” he started as his son scanned the document. “I wasn’t an Assassin yet, so I didn’t understand the importance of it. It was nothing more than a pretty amulet.”

“Don’t tell me: it was a Piece of Eden,” Haytham muttered, eyes lifting briefly from the paper in his hands. The contents of the letter had been brief, merely glossing over the death of one of their brothers--a man by the name of Miko; this was old news to him, even if the exact details _behind_ the assassination were still a bit of a mystery. When he finished reading, his father nodded; so he’d been correct in his assumption.

“What did Miko have to do with this?” He paused for a moment before narrowing his eyes at Edward. “Did you give it to him for safekeeping?”

If that was the case, Miko’s death became all that much easier to understand, and the Templars were, once again, one step ahead of them.

“You know how delicate my relationship with the Brotherhood is.” Edward’s smile was fleeting, the faintest hint of bitterness creeping into his voice. “Once they found out what it was, they wouldn’t trust me with it.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about this before? For that matter, why didn’t you give it to me?”

His father’s gaze was rueful, that sad smile appearing upon his face once more. “You know perfectly well how secretive they can be about such things. In any case, I passed it on when you were still a child; I doubt the Brotherhood would have allowed me to make such an item into a Kenway heirloom.”

Haytham’s gaze flicked toward his father and then away, sighing quietly as he did so. “No, I suppose not.”

Born to an Assassin who got into more trouble for bending the Creed to his needs than not, Haytham’s ascent in the Brotherhood had been rife with trouble; the insults had flown thick and fast, and the distrust in the Kenway name ran deep--at least, it did until he proved that his own allegiances and convictions were not quite as grey as those of his father. 

“What would you have me do?”

“You recall that Birch stole a book about Those Who Came Before,” Edward finally said, attention shifting away from his son. “I do not think that was the only thing he sought to take from us that night.”

It took no stretch of the imagination to figure out what his father intended to say next.

“I’m of the belief that Birch tracked the amulet to Miko, snatched it, and is now heading to the Americas.” Silence fell between the two men, heavy and uncomfortable--filled with memories from long ago, and just when Haytham thought he could take it no longer, his father continued. “I have no doubt that the Assassins will be sending someone to try and catch him, but...

“I want that person to be you.”

“This is why you called me back.” Haytham sighed and closed his eyes for a second; a faint, humorless smile toyed at his lips as he tried to make light of the situation. It all felt too heavy now--a feeling he never quite enjoyed in conversation with his father. “I should have known. You realize my affinity for the seas can hardly compare to yours. Are you so sure you don’t wish to go on this journey yourself?”

“Hah. And you think the Mentor would allow me so much freedom? Remember whom you speak to, son,” Edward said, reaching across his desk to retrieve the letter; there was now a note of humor in his voice, a lightness in his eyes that had been absent before. “Besides, I’d scarcely have a chance to enjoy the sea. I’d be shuttled over to the colonies, and then? Then there’d be nothing but land, which is more to _your_ liking.

“No, I think this is an assignment best left to you.” The small smile that had appeared on his lips lingered for a moment longer before it finally waned, his expression growing serious once more. Edward idly smoothed his fingers over the creases in the paper, his thoughts again drawn to heavier matters. “Miko was a good man. He was one of the few who trusted me.

“Had I known that it was an item that would bring so much misfortune to those that held it, I never would have kept it in the first place.”

“When I find your trinket, what am I to do with it?” Haytham asked, his voice low.

On any other occasion, the Mentor would likely disapprove of having one of her Master Assassins leave the continent, to go haring off to the other side of the planet, but he didn’t doubt that the loss of an artifact would make for a compelling argument to send someone of his caliber after it. Haytham was also quite sure that she’d have a word or two to say about what was done with the thing after he’d found it, but as his father was making this very personal request of him, it only seemed appropriate to ask.

Edward said nothing for a moment, brow creased and eyes averted. “Get rid of it,” he finally said. His gaze swung upwards, and Haytham was struck by the intensity in his expression. “No joy can come from keeping a Piece of Eden. Those accursed things bring only sorrow.”


	3. Chapter 3

**_Davenport Homestead, Massachusetts - August 1753_ **

Time: there never seemed to be enough of it.

It had taken time to gain the Mentor’s approval, time to prepare for his journey, and time to cross the Atlantic. The feeling of idleness irritated Haytham, especially when he knew that, with every passing day, Reginald Birch was slipping further and further out of his grasp. The man was the Grand Master of the Templars; he had no one to answer to, no one to beg permission from--he did what he wanted, when he wanted, and how he wanted.

By the time the _Aquila_ made port in London, Haytham could not wait to leave, giving the ship’s crew the bare minimum of time to resupply and rest before casting off once more. Oh, the action hadn’t earned him any friends, but once he’d set foot aboard the vessel, he’d tried to make amends with Faulkner--a man whom his father spoke well of.

“Are you a seafarer like Edward?” the sailor asked on their first day out at sea, an odd look of hope in his eyes. When Haytham shook his head, Faulkner laughed, but he could hear that bittersweet note in his voice.

The first mate did not bring the matter up again.

When the American shoreline at last presented itself, Haytham could not help the surge of energy that filled him. Here, in this new land, he would be able to complete his work and fulfill his duty as an Assassin, but, if he was fortunate, he’d also be able to take revenge upon the man who had _almost_ destroyed the Kenway family as well. That old wound had festered and grown during the dull journey over, and by the time he could see birds wheeling above them in the sky, the desire for justice--for _revenge_ \--had taken a strong hold over him.

Mentor Achilles Davenport was waiting for him at the docks, and while he’d never been given a description of the man, he knew that no other individual could be standing there, not with his head held high, the set of his shoulders proud, and his back ramrod straight. _That_ was the stance of a man who knew the power he wielded and would take no flack from those beneath him.

“Be careful around that one, Kenway,” Faulkner called from his spot by the wheel, and despite those warning words, there was nothing but pride and good humor in his gaze. “No fancy titles will save you if he doesn’t think you’re up to par.”

“You think he won’t approve of me?” Haytham replied, an eyebrow quirked and an arrogant smile pulling at his lips.

“He’s a difficult man to impress.”

Davenport gave him a quick once-over as he stepped onto the docks, and when he extended a hand, Haytham took it, returning the firm handshake. “Welcome to the colonies, Master Kenway,” the man said, his tone revealing nothing. “Mentor Ward said that I was to assist you in finding something we’ve... lost.

“It was an amulet, if I remember correctly.”

There was something about Davenport’s gaze that put Haytham on edge; the man knew more than he was letting on. Still, he simply nodded his head in response. “A Piece of Eden.”

“Let’s return to the manor,” Davenport said, gesturing with a slight tilt of the head toward the house on the other side of the cove. The man’s sharp gaze turned to Faulkner. “Make sure that Master Kenway’s things are taken up. We’ve got things to discuss.”

They spoke of idle matters on the way to the manor, both men quietly finding and creating boundaries for themselves. True, they were brothers, but only a fool would think that trust would come so quickly and naturally because of it. Their reputations meant that they knew each other as individuals to be respected, but that was all; even with the Creed to bind them, every Assassin followed its words in a different way.

His father was living proof of that.

A little boy opened the door to the manor when they finally wound their way up the path, and while joy initially lit his face, the expression faded quickly at the sight of a stranger. Shortly after, however, a woman came to stand behind him, offering both men a gentle smile. Davenport gestured toward the two individuals, and his serious expression finally softened, if only just. “My wife, Abigail, and my son, Connor.”

_Ah_ , so he was a family man.

As he greeted the wife and child with a charming smile and warm words, Haytham could not help but wonder if they’d already witnessed the pain and grief that came with belonging to a family that followed the Creed--if the boy’s innocent eyes had already seen death at his father’s hands. There was no bitterness in his line of thought; it was merely a matter-of-fact assessment of the situation, of what he’d become resigned to believing in. This was nothing to be ashamed of though: Assassin families would find strength in the wounds they carried--at least, that’s what he felt.

Davenport hurried his son off to his room, Abigail excused herself with a small smile and a promise of tea later, and at last, it was just the two of them in a quiet room, sunlight streaming in through the windows.

“So what brings you to the colonies, Master Kenway?” the Mentor asked, motioning toward one chair as he lowered himself into another.

“I’ve come to take back the--”

“That is why the Assassins sent you. Why are _you_ here?”

Haytham narrowed his eyes before forcing a sharp smile to his lips. “Our goals are one and the same.”

“I’ve heard stories about you and your father. There was no need to send someone of your skill here,” Davenport replied, steepling his fingers and leaning them against his chin. Again, he could feel the man’s eyes upon him, like he was trying to read his very thoughts and understand what made him tick. “Our Brotherhood is not as old or as historied as yours, but we have our own talented men and women.

“A letter from Mentor Ward would have sufficed. _You_ did not need to come.”

“I come at my father’s behest.”

Davenport leaned forward, slowly nodding his head. “You have a personal investment in the matter.”

It took a moment of deliberation, but Haytham nodded, the slightest dip of the head. When he was still in London, he’d been promised assistance from the Assassins here, but if Davenport would deny him, then no matter. He had his own goals laid out before him; accomplishing them alone was not impossible--it would simply take more time.

He’d just have to hope that Birch would not disappear before he could catch up to him.

“There is a village nearby--Kanatahséton. They... may be able to help you.” The man’s expression was guarded, as if he was unsure whether or not he ought to be sharing this information with a stranger--an Assassin brother or not. “I just ask that you don’t bring your demons with you when you visit.”

“Demons?” Haytham tried for a smile but failed in the face of Davenport’s unchanging expression.

“Your personal investment.”

“Mentor Davenport, I sincerely believe that this is--”

“Your word, Master Kenway.”

At last, he conceded defeat, allowing an irritated sigh to slip past his lips and a note of annoyance to color his voice; Haytham barely managed to keep from rolling his eyes. “Rest assured, I won’t be bringing any of my so-called _demons_ with me.”

Davenport continued to stare at him, his gaze unwavering, and Haytham knew that judgement was being passed on him; it was as Faulkner said: he was a difficult man to impress. When at last the Mentor nodded his head, he silently celebrated this small victory, even if the niggling irritation remained. What could possibly be so special about this village that it’d require so much unwillingness on Davenport’s part to reveal more? After all, it was not as if Birch were the type to take an interest in the native people.

“I’ll arrange a meeting for you,” the man finally said, reluctance still evident in his voice. “Until then, please enjoy what the Homestead has to offer.”

Though it was an open invitation, there was nothing inviting about those words.


	4. Chapter 4

**_Kanatahséton, Mohawk Valley - October 1753_ **

There was distrust in the eyes of those who watched him enter the village.

Haytham was no fool: he understood perfectly well why the Mohawk looked at him with such hostility. The white man had been steadily encroaching upon the land of the natives--all of the natives--and he was a living, breathing symbol of a losing battle. Oh, it didn’t matter that Achilles strode mere feet ahead of him or that he was an Assassin; that innate distrust would linger.

Well, at least he was quite used to being stared at by this point. Back on the Homestead, the welcome of his fellow Assassins was... frosty at best. They saw his presence here as a bit of an insult. After all, why did someone have to be sent _here_ to fetch something? Did the Assassins in England think that they weren’t good enough? Haytham had tried to smooth over the cracks by saying that it was for personal reasons that he had come, but his words fell upon deaf ears.

Only Faulkner seemed to give a damn about what he said and why he was here, and when the man left the port for duty, Haytham was left with nothing but the wait. He’d tried to convince Davenport to let him leave the Homestead, even if just to blindly try and track Birch, but the Mentor would always keep him on his property, promising that the meeting could be any day now and wouldn’t it be a shame if he wasn’t here?

Back then, Haytham thought that Davenport only said those words to keep him under his scrutinizing watch, but now that he saw these people, he was starting to think that the wait time had been _real_ and not just some sort of weird test.

Their long and silent walk eventually took them inside a longhouse where an elderly woman sat before a fire. She exchanged words with Davenport in a curious language that sent chills down his spine, the words both eerie and beautiful to his ears, and then he sat down. Haytham turned to the Mentor for some sort of additional instruction, but receiving none, he too took a seat, hands resting on his thighs.

Another woman entered the longhouse, this one much younger, and it would have been a lie to say that she didn’t immediately catch his attention. She was wild and beautiful, confident and fierce, and she gave him such a look that he couldn’t help but feel like his very soul was being searched.

There was not an ounce of fear in her dark brown eyes.

When she at last joined them by the fire, conversation immediately broke out. It seemed to go on and on, with much gesturing toward him and raising of voices. By the time everything settled, Haytham had no idea what was going on, and it seemed like he wasn’t going to be receiving any help, if the dark looks being cast his way were any sign to go by.

Then, quite suddenly, Davenport rose as if to leave, but when Haytham made a move to follow, he shook his head. “Stay here.”

The clan mother and the Mentor left, leaving him alone with the younger woman, and she gave him another searching look before moving to fetch a wooden box tucked away amongst the many behind her. “You have been granted the right to use the crystal ball.”

_Perfect English._

He stared at her, dumbfounded, and she rolled her eyes at him, shoving the box into his arms. “Don’t act so surprised,” she muttered, clearly annoyed that this _idiotic white man_ would make such an assumption. “Now did you want help finding your trinket or not?”

“Ah...” Haytham offered her an apologetic smile. “Yes. Yes, I did. Thank you.” Carefully, he lifted the lid, expecting to find some sort of Mohawk artifact, but instead, he was greeted with the sight of a perfectly spherical ball--a Piece of Eden. Haytham tried to hide his look of surprise, but he doubted he was able to totally mask it.

So _this_ was the reason behind all the secrecy then. Haytham could understand Davenport’s hesitancy now, could see why he’d be unwilling to reveal that such a thing existed on American shores. After all, what if he’d been a Templar, _waiting_ for the perfect moment to unveil his true allegiances? Certainly, it didn’t change the fact that the lack of trust between them stung, but he _understood_ now.

Curious to see what the crystal ball would do, Haytham cautiously placed his hands around it, and the thing pulsed under his fingertips, as if alive, before the world was swallowed in white.

“Haytham Kenway.”

The voice was nowhere and everywhere at once, and he looked around him, his eyes squinting against the brightness of the light that surrounded him; there was nobody there. The minutes ticked by, and slowly, oh so slowly, he was able to make out edges and planes in this bleached white environment: trees and rocks, grass and streams--a forest.

“Haytham Kenway. You have been brought here for a great purpose. You must find the amulet. It cannot be left in the hands of the Templars.”

“Who are you?” he asked, trying to shield his eyes from the light, but his hand offered him no protection.

“I am the one who has guided the Assassins for generations.”

Years and years of studying the ways of the Brotherhood meant that Haytham had an impressive grasp of the organization’s history, but even then, the answer was not easily apparent. After all, the Assassins had had many notable Mentors over the years, but death was not something that could be escaped through skill and intellect. So who--

Suddenly, it all clicked into place: the ghosts that Ezio Auditore spoke of.

Haytham had never expected to encounter one in his lifetime, had almost thought them nothing more than hallucinations, but here she was, her words reinforcing what he already knew: he had to get that amulet back. “What must I do?”

The forest around him burst into flame, white disintegrating into red, orange, and yellow, and the woman’s voice grew tenfold in volume, drowning him in the sound. “Protect the secrets of this land, and the amulet will come to you. Grasp it within your hands, and it shall be yours.

“-- _But should you fail..._ ” Her tone became ominous, and Haytham felt the chill of fear lance down his spine, despite the heat of the fire--a warning of things to come. “Tragedy will follow you until you join once more with your blood. Then and only then will the key return to you and will the world be safe from destruction.”

Like a man dunked in water, he was thrown back into reality, his face painted with shock; cold sweat ran down his spine. The ghost’s words rang in his ears, and Haytham pressed a hand to his chest, his pulse racing. His lone companion in the longhouse gave him a long stare and carefully lifted the crystal ball from his grasp, returning it to its place of safekeeping.

“She spoke to you,” she said--not a question but a statement. When Haytham provided no additional response aside from a slight nod of the head, she smirked, but there was no humor in the gesture. “What will you do?”

He thought of the burning forest, and he thought he knew what had to happen to prevent that event from occurring. It went against all logical thought to not pursue Birch, but Haytham would listen to this ghost and trust in her guiding words: he would stay in this village and wait for his opportunity to snatch the amulet from the Templars.

“Is there anywhere I can stay?” he finally asked, and after a moment, the woman nodded, as if she had been expecting him to say that from the start.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the slow as molasses updates. RL has not been very conducive to writing as of recent. :( Thank you for your patience with me! ♥

**_Kanatahséton, Mohawk Valley - February 1754_ **

The winters were fierce in the wilds--the wind frigid and biting, the snow heavy and deep. He was never able to _quite_ shake off the cold that chilled him to the bone, nor could he forget the loneliness that he felt. Haytham’s bond with the people he now lived with was little better than it had been at the start, but somehow, he still felt more at home _here_ than he ever had at the Homestead.

Davenport had been all too willing to help him move away from his property, an unhappy glint in the man’s eyes whenever they spoke.

To be quite honest, the Mentor’s disapproval of him seemed to have only increased since Haytham had been granted permission to use the Piece of Eden that the Mohawk kept. Haytham couldn’t make sense of it, and it was only when he’d voiced his bafflement about the whole matter to Ziio that it all clicked into place.

“He has never been granted the opportunity to hold, let alone _use_ the crystal ball,” she answered easily, tossing more tinder onto the fire. When Haytham merely stared at her, Ziio smirked. “Achilles is a proud man. A certain amount of jealousy is to be expected.

“He probably thinks of you like an upstart.”

Haytham offered Ziio a wry smile that was neither here nor there, delving no further into the problems that plagued him. Oh, she was just about the only person who would speak to him here in the village, but despite their odd acquaintance, there were still matters that he kept close to him--first and foremost his doubts about coming here to the colonies.

After all, what had he accomplished thus far? _Nothing._

Birch was lost to him, the trail gone cold, and there was nothing to protect this village _from_. No trouble befell this place. How long would he have to stay here until the amulet came to him? How long would it be before he could complete his task and return to his homeland? His entire being itched for action, for something-- _anything_ \--to happen, because this idleness was surely going to be the end of him.

“Davenport has nothing to fear from me. I’ve no intention of bothering his Brotherhood more than I must,” he finally replied with a quiet sigh. Ziio quirked a brow, unbelieving, and shrugged her shoulders; Haytham could never shake the feeling that she thought him to be somewhat idiotic, and the thought made him chuckle dryly. “I speak the truth, whether or not you want to believe me.”

“Then what _are_ you here for? Isn’t the amulet something the Assassins want?”

“He told you that much, did he?”

“He said enough,” she replied, but there was something odd about the inflection of her voice now, like she was hiding something. “There’s more to us letting you make use of the crystal ball than just having Achilles say a few words to us.”

“Oh?”

Ziio rolled her eyes. “Stop trying to be coy and ask if you have a question.”

“I wasn’t trying to be--” The look she gave him forced him into momentary silence. “I was told that I was to protect this village,” he finally said, exasperated. “But as of yet, I haven’t seen anything that needs protecting, aside from the Piece of Eden.”

She continued to stare at him for a moment longer before suddenly rising to her feet, offering her hand to him. Ziio had that same look in her eyes as she had when she’d first offered him a place to stay; Haytham still didn’t know what it meant, still didn’t know what it entailed. “I have something to show you.”

And without another word, she marched them out of the longhouse and into the cold.

Haytham grit his teeth against the weather, pressing one hand to his hat to keep it there, while the other clutched at his cloak, pulling it close. More than once, he sought to protest this sudden excursion, but the wind would always swallow his words, the cold instantly making him regret the decision to open his mouth in the first place.

Further and further away they went into the woods, and all the while, Haytham wondered where she was taking them--and in such a hurry, too. Hope flared within him, and he struggled to keep up with her, knowing all too well that he’d be lost in the forest without her guidance. At last, he felt her hand close tight around his wrist, and through the heavy fall of snow, he thought he could see a faint smile pulling at her lips.

Despite the cold, the press of her fingers against his skin was warm.

“Was it really necessary to come here _now_?” he asked irritably, when they took refuge in a cave, and Haytham could hear the exasperation in her sigh, could almost see her roll her eyes at him despite the inky blackness that surrounded them. “After all, what’s so special about--”

“Just wait a moment,” came her biting reply, and the warmth of her hand disappeared from his wrist. The sounds of clicking rocks filled the air, and then light flickered into life as Ziio worked the weak flame into a hearty fire; shadows danced across the rough walls--except... not all of the walls were of stone.

Deep within the cave, the surfaces were smooth and cool like metal, too perfect to be made by Mother Nature’s hand. Haytham smoothed his fingers over it, disregarding the native drawings on the walls, and his movements only stilled when he felt Ziio draw close.

“This place is a secret of our people.”

“Is there nothing more?” he asked after a moment, tracing a single fingertip over the circular hole in the wall. Whatever could belong here? Haytham narrowed his eyes at it before turning his attention to the woman at his side.

“Are you always so difficult to please?” she countered, her annoyance tempered with a note of humor; Ziio nudged him in the side with her elbow. Haytham had the grace to feign embarrassment at her comment, but he still felt the sharp sting of disappointment when nothing else appeared before him, when nothing else happened. All that could be said of these walls was that they had been made by Those Who Came Before--nothing more and nothing less.

“Thank you for sharing this with me,” he said at last, forcing himself to smile and show _some_ appreciation; Haytham doubted that she was fooled by his faked gratitude though. This... wasn’t what he wanted (what had he been hoping for?), but Ziio had given him this much, enlarged his understanding of her people _just_ a little more. No, best not to linger too much on his disappointment; he must accept what has been given to him.

Haytham ran his hand across the smooth surface once more, focusing his attention to the added drawings this time. “Can you tell me about these?”

The shift in conversation caused Ziio to narrow her eyes at him, but she nodded, acquiescing to his request. If she disapproved of his behavior, she did not mention it, so she regaled him with the tales of her people as the shadows danced upon the walls and the wind howled outside.

By the time her storytelling came to an end, the storm had given way to sunlight--a new dawn.


End file.
